I am writing. And submitting. Evidence for that is the five rejections I’ve gotten in as many days here recently. I just wrote a story this afternoon. Came to me from something Robert Graves wrote and perhaps the heat on the bus. I wrote it on the bus while ignoring an older woman that kept jostling me none too subtly trying to get my seat.
I’m reading Robert Graves now. I just got two books out of the 113 book collection of his works the library has. Seems a bit over the top, so much Graves in the library, eh? There’s got to be an interesting story behind that.
Graves’ theory on poetry is interesting. I’ve been meaning to read The White Goddess for three years now and have finally gotten around to it. I like any theory that will take classically inclined poetry and classify it as not quite legitimate. He’s a bit dotty on romantic poets, I think.
And we have emerged from a year and a half’s more or less non-stop rainy season. I’m going to miss the rain, but the sun warms these hot weather people here and makes them glad, mostly. Fine sight things are too, on the natural side: willows are graceful, rubber trees bright and shadowy, the fresnos are tall and proud, it seems. Hoping for a glimpse of pine-clad slopes descending to indescribable blue water here soon.
I paint a lot too. One of these days I want to try a glad willow. I have a lot of difficulties with branches, you know. Not quite as straightforward as you’d think, branches. Quite devious on some trees. I still paint mountains and trees and skies because it is hard to do them all right on the same paper.
Only three months to go to finish all things off and throw all excess away and sell all things. I’m applying too, but as used to rejection as I’ve become, I don’t expect a whole lot to come from that. Still, it can’t hurt to try.